I can’t take this anymore, too weak…for this shit, she says. Straight to my face. 
And she throws the Keats, it is the hardcover edition, on the kitchen floor. I have obviously offended her, not intentionally of course. It was no big deal, I grabbed the Keats in the bookstore and since I was dressed in black I figured it would look good on me. It did. I can’t tell her that because she would say I’m selfish and according to her that’s a sin. I pull out a cigarette but then – of course, no smoking; the gas leaks constantly in her apartment, no naked flames allowed. 
There are red spots on her neck; she’s working herself up to the final outburst of anger and I feel this urge to kiss her. Must not disturb her monologue. Her hair is all over her face and her clothes seem suddenly too big; as if the amount of rage she pushes out of her lungs causes her body to shrink.
Don’t punish me, I say, it’s just poetry. And Keats looks at me from the kitchen floor and wonders how I can put up with a woman who considers his words an insult.
What can I do, I completely love her…she holds my big fat heart in her hands.